Elizabeth Ann JohnsonMurphree Biography
Author Bio...
Born in northern Alabama, father was a Native American (Chickasaw) sharecropper; mother who was emotionally absent, raised by her father, Native American great-grandmother and an African-American woman whom were all were great storytellers.
Instead of playing like most children, she roamed the countryside alone or with her father and at night she sat at the feet of these strong-minded individuals listening to the stories of their lives. During the summer, she lived with her fathers’ sister; it was at this favorite aunt that she would discover a library, and mingle with her aunt’s circle of friends that included local writers, artist, and politicians. A cabin deep within the Black Warrior Forest was the weekend retreat and filled with these people from a different life than her own. This aunt encouraged the imagination; planted the desire to write, a seedling waiting to sprout from the warm southern heart of a child.
The harshness that shrouded life would cause her to withdraw from most of the world; it fills the pages of her writing, the heartache, the abuse, and the denial from her mother. Today, she lives in Southern Wisconsin…far from her southern roots, writes and paints daily.
Dreaming through the distance misty lives of the unknown; among bellowing clouds where Heavenly bells are heard above laughter silenced long ago, dreaming of yesterday.
Beds of Lotus upon the clouds where I once lay softly, a paradox invading the mind, the spirit a living fire; dreaming of yesterday.
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Once fearless, spirit broken; Innocence no longer understanding the meaning of love. She writes upon an invisible page, the Keepers spewing words of rage. He held all of the treasures, her love he once obtained; he never cared for her or the pain he gave.
Sorrow lingers in the twilight, while the tears of the Angels fall upon the earth, into the sea; remembering the beauty that once was and no longer can be. Quiet falls upon a sparkling shore; dreadful hours gone like a stormy wind in the night, as the Innocence soul takes its flight.
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The smell of your breath
makes me think of decay.
I felt pain on my beat-up
body and the crack of your
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Dying, lying quietly naked
beneath the sun with the
wind caressing your soul.
Ceasing to breath, removing
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In the darkness of humankind's
sorrow the mind's eye begins to
see the weaken spirit; a weeping
brought forward by the beasts of
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7/19/2025 6:03:07 AM # 1.0.0
